The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga)

by Karen Azinger

  The knights had built well. Twin battlements spanned the chasm, blocking the way south. Strong and tall and crenellated, the battlements were impressive yet they’d proved no match for the Mordant’s magic. In one mighty blast, the Wizard’s Fist had smashed the gates to oblivion, turning the siege into a rout. Magic was a dread weapon, something the knights forgot at their peril.

  The general reached the central barbican and found a massive catapult crouched upon the turret like a wood-carved dragon. Snapping his fingers, he captured the attention of a centurion. “Disassemble the catapult and reposition it at the southern mouth of the pass. We’ll turn the enemy’s own weapons against him.” Soldiers leaped to obey, black cloaks swarming the mighty catapult like a plague of ants. Numbers always mattered in battle. His army had vastly superior numbers and magic, an invincible pairing. The general stared down the gullet of Raven Pass, a narrow gash sundering the Dragon Spine Mountains, the keyhole to the southern kingdoms. His troops swarmed the pass, a formidable mixture of taals, duegars and men, a hundred thousand strong, an invincible army keen to wreck havoc upon the south.

  “General Haith!”

  He turned to find Trantor, his personal snargon of the duegars waddling toward him. Squat and barrel-chest, the duegar’s height barely reached the general’s belt buckle, yet his teeth were filed to points, displaying a ferocity that belied his size.

  “My lord, we finished the sweep.”

  The general waited, “And?”

  “We’ve sniffed out the chambers of both walls and found no hint of magic save our own.” The duegar grinned, “The knights left in a hurry. Their storerooms are stocked with weapons and food but there’s no magic.”

  “Are you certain? You know our lord craves magic.”

  The snargon bristled. “I know my craft.”

  “Then sniff out the king’s quarters again, just to be sure. Do it yourself, don’t leave it for one of your minions. I’ll be sleeping in the king’s bed tonight and I don’t want any surprises.”

  “As you command,” the snargon gave him a sloppy salute and then turned to waddle away.

  The general bit back a rebuke. Duegars were surly little bastards, a spawn of the Pit, but they had their uses. Having witnessed more magic than he cared to remember, the general made it a habit to always keep a snargon close, a protection from enemies both within and without. One did not gain gray hairs in the service of the Mordant without a certain amount of precaution.

  A cold wind snatched at his fur-lined cloak. Winter’s bite was milder in the south, yet he found himself looking forward to a warm bed protected by stout stone walls, a king’s bed, a fitting start to the conquest.

  The general finished traversing the battlement. The sheer granite walls of Raven Pass towered overhead. His gaze climbed the lichen-stained granite, patches of bright yellow forming the crude figure of rearing horse. A noble talisman, yet it had brought no luck to the knights.

  He reached the end and found his aide, Major Ruggar, waiting for him. Tall and blond with a pock-marked face, Ruggar had a weasel’s cunning leavened with a strong sense of survival, the very traits the general sought in his aides. The major snapped a smart salute, “I’ve seen to the horses. The stables are impressive, spacious and clean and well stocked with hay, but the knights did not leave a single nag within the stalls.”

  The general smothered his disappointment, horses were crucial to his plans. “Post double guards on the stables and keep the taals well away.” The taals were fierce fighters but they viewed horses as easy meat, a mistake he could not afford. The general gave his aide a piercing glare. “You dare not lose a single mount.” Responsibility laced with threat, such was the way of the north. The general watched as Ruggar gave a terse nod, “Yes, sir.”

  “And order the cooks to prepare a feast for the officers, the best the octagon has to offer. We’ll dine on a king’s fare tonight. To the victors go the spoils.”

  Ruggar flashed a knowing grin. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now tell me about the treasure.”

  Ruggar braced as if for a storm. “So far we’ve only found only one chest of coins, mostly silver.”

  The general scowled, his words laced with suspicion. “A meager trove for a king. There must be a hidden storeroom somewhere.”

  Sweat beaded Ruggar’s face. “We’ll keep searching.”

  “Do that. And be sure to take my share before the priests claim their tithe.”

  “Already done.”

  “Good. And what of their maps?”

  A chilling howl erupted from the far end of the courtyard, a savage sound to set men’s souls on edge. A second howl chased the first, till the yard rang with the blood-lust of a hunting pack. General Haith swore, “By the Nine Hells, those beasts had best be well chained.”

  “Voltran has the hounds in hand.”

  The general gave his aide a sharp look. “You’re a fool if you believe him. No one cowls a gorehound save the Mordant.” The major had the good sense not to answer. The general grimaced at the twisted howls. He would never have brought the gorehounds south save for the Mordant’s orders. “Those beasts pose as much a threat to our own army as to the enemy. Tell Voltran to feed them some dead knights. It might quell their bloodlust and give them a taste for the enemy.”

  “The priests will protest.”

  Anger snarled through the general. “The priests serve at my sufferance.”

  Ruggar stiffened, “As you command.” He snapped a salute and started to turn away but the general forestalled him. “And Ruggar, when you are done with Voltran, see to it that my personal effects are placed in the king’s chamber. Do what you can to make them more befitting a battle commander.”

  “As you say, my lord,” Ruggar sped for the stairs.

  The tortured howls intensified, grating against the general’s mind, unearthing visions of gruesome rituals in the Mordant’s bloody cavern. Some memories were better left buried. Deciding to quit the battlement, the general followed his aide down the stairs, the thick oak door mercifully muting the howls.

  A single turn of the stairs brought him to the knights’ quarters. Earlier in the day, he’d taken a cursory tour of the honeycombed rooms, walking the hallways till he found the king’s chambers. He’d expected opulence, dismayed to discover size was the only true difference. Cold and austere, the royal chambers showed no adornment save for a wall of ancient swords and battered shields. Grim quarters for a king, proving the octagon knights knew how to fight but not how to live. Service to the Mordant was so very different. Those who served well, lived well, but the struggle to reach the higher tiers was slippery and fraught with danger. Having gained the pinnacle, the general fully intended to enjoy the luxury owed to his power.

  A young centurion approached. “My lord, General Marris is asking for you.”

  “Lead the way.” The centurion led him to a small dining room. Black-cloaked officers crowded around an oak table, an iron candelabra hanging overhead. Spare and plain, the room was heated by a roaring hearth, a pair of windows shuttered against the cold.

  “Attention!”

  The officers flung irritated glances toward the door and then snapped to attention once they saw him. General Marris was the first to speak. “My lord, we found the maps you were hoping for.”

  His interest piqued, he strode to the table. Scrolled maps were spread across the tabletop, mountains and rivers and castles inked onto parchment. His gaze drank in the details. Mapmaking was a military art and these were exquisite. “Show me what you’ve found.”

  General Marris unrolled a parchment depicting the Dragon Spine Mountains. “This shows all the Octagon’s strongholds. It seems they’ve cut more trails through the western Spines than we ever guessed.”

  The general grinned. “Maps are the perfect traitors. They let you see the land through the enemy’s eyes.” He studied the detail, squinting at some of the markings. “It shows more than just strongholds. I’ll wager these horseshoes denote stable
s for fresh mounts, most likely for messengers.” His gaze circled the officers, choosing two captains. “Lyndon and Crowley, take a pair of cohorts and raid the two nearest stations north and south of the pass. Kill the knights and capture the horses. Bring the mounts back unharmed.” His voice stabbed like a knife. “I want those mounts. Horses are key to the Mordant’s plans.”

  The two captains snapped brisk salutes.

  “Go at once. Take whatever men you need but take no taals and no mounts.”

  Crowley stammered. “Go afoot? Even the officers?”

  “Yes. All mounts are to be held in reserve for a special mission. Anyone who dares use a horse without my express permission will be fed to the gorehounds.”

  A grim silence fell on the chamber.

  The general snarled, “You’re wasting time.”

  Saluting, the captains beat a hasty retreat.

  The general’s gaze sought the maps. “What else have you found?” A wave of dizziness ambushed him. Perhaps it was the blazing fire, or the closeness of the room, for he found himself slick with sweat, leaning against the table. “Open those shutters.”

  A major leaped to obey.

  A cold breeze blew in, banishing his dizziness. The general moved closer to the window, thankful the gorehounds had fallen silent. “Have you found any maps of the southern kingdoms?”

  An aide unrolled a map painted bright with color. Castlegard was proudly embellished with gold, the great castle protecting a saddle-shaped valley at the start of the Southern Road. The general’s gaze followed the ancient road south to the foothills of the Southern Mountains. Beyond the foothills all details disappeared, swallowed by a vast toothy maw of snowcapped mountains. So the Octagon knights were ignorant of the Kiralynn Monastery, or at least their maps said so. He stared at the inked mountains as if will alone could unearth their secrets.

  “General Haith!”

  The croaking cry came from beyond the open window.

  “General Haith you are summoned!”

  Recognizing the demonic nature of the voice, fear gripped the general’s neck. “This is for me. The rest of you wait here.” His hand on his sword hilt, he strode from the council chamber making straight for the stairs. Climbing the spiral, he stepped out onto the battle ramparts. A brisk wind caught at his gray hair, his black cape flaring behind him.

  “General Haith you are summoned!” A gorelabe circled overheard, a demonic malformed-creature with the body of an albatross and the eyes and mouth of a man. Of all his lord’s creations, gorelabes were the most hideous and the most feared, fashioned to be the eyes and the voice of the Mordant.

  Soldiers in black fell prostrate to the battlement in a clatter of arms and armor. Covering their heads with their arms, they lay prostrate, displaying a mixture of terror and submission. The general did not blame them for their fear. Refusing to cower, he strode across the battlement, throwing his voice at the gorelabe. “I am General Haith.”

  Great wings flapped overhead, spiraling down till the gorelabe settled upon a nearby merlon. Odd how it retained a seabird’s graceful flight while everything else reeked of corruption. The general forced himself to meet the creature’s gaze, suppressing a shudder. Eyes that were too-knowing stared back at him, a man’s soul captured within the body of a bird turned demon. Rumors ran legion about the gorelabes. Some whispered the Mordant could peer directly through the creature’s unnatural eyes, spying on his subjects. The general wondered at the rumor’s truth, but either way, the demon was dangerous, a messenger who must be obeyed. He bowed towards the misshapen fiend. “I serve the Mordant.”

  “Give my creature proof. You know what I seek.” The voice had an unnatural rasp, as if it came from the pits of hell.

  The general knew the required proof. Unlacing the bindings of his surcoat, he pulled the garment down and to the side, revealing the dark rune etched above his heart, the mark of the Dark Lord. The gorelabe leaned forward. For a moment, he feared the beast would strike but then it settled back on its perch. “Your proof is accepted. The plan is changed. The octagon knights are to be ground into oblivion. There will be no major battles, no fodder for bards, just a slow, inglorious blood letting, till the maroon is no more. Grind them into dust. Make them suffer till they perish for they’ve earned my wrath. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord,” but in the back of his mind he wondered what the knights had done to so alter the battle plan. “So you want me to attack Castlegard?”

  “No!”

  The general flinched at the anger riding the demon’s voice.

  “That castle is a deathtrap best left alone. Make Raven Pass your stronghold. Ransack the farmsteads of the domain, pillage their food and torture the farmers. Make the knights fight you here. Slay them in the snow and the muck, till their honor and their memory are both ground into oblivion. Destroy the knights and do not look to the north for reinforcements.”

  The last sentence ambushed him, but he kept his questions to himself. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Now feed my gorelabe, for it has many leagues to fly.”

  He dared not hesitate, nor take the time to fetch a prisoner. “Remove your helms!” Men obeyed with shaking hands, keeping their faces averted. The general’s gaze roved among them, finally settling on a soldier of low rank with graying hair, someone who had served but never achieved. The general unsheathed his sword, stepping towards his choice. “Know that your death serves the Mordant.” Raising his sword in two hands, he severed the head from the body in one deft stroke. Eyes wide in horror, the head rolled toward his boot, fresh blood pooling on the stone rampart. “Your feast is laid.”

  The gorelabe flew to the blood. Soldiers scuttled backwards, moving like frightened crabs. Folding its great wings, the gorelabe crouched by the severed neck, its pink tongue lapping at the fresh spilt blood.

  The general watched, keeping the revulsion from his face.

  When the creature had finally drunk its fill, it struggled to hop to the nearest merlon, a seabird floundering on land. Having gained its perch, the gorelabe stared back at him, blood dripping from its mouth like a blasphemy. “Serve well and live well!” And then it laughed; a hollow, mocking sound. Licking its bloody lips, the creature spread its wings wide and caught a gust of wind. With a grace that belied its true nature, it soared south to serve its master.

  General Haith stood statue-still, watching till the gorelabe flew from sight, its parting words scratched in his mind. He’d heard the saying a thousand times, serve well and live well, a promise and a threat, but coming from the gorelabe’s bloody mouth it seemed an ominous lie.

  12

  Baldwin

  Baldwin glanced over his shoulder, scanning the forest as he rode. For the hundredth time he saw nothing. His eyes lied; he knew it in his gut. Something followed him. A warning pricked the back of his neck, like a hare sensing a starving wolf. He’d felt it ever since he’d gained the flatlands. Setting spurs to his mount, the king’s squire asked for a faster gallop. He threaded a path through the winter-bare trees, a cursed sword strapped to his back. His horse began to tire, lathered and blowing hard, but Baldwin refused to slow, lashing his mount as if the hounds of hell gave chase.

  Wrapped in a blanket and bound with rope, the great sword thumped a rhythm against his back, keeping time to the galloping hoof beats. Boric’s blade, the first blue steel sword, the words thrummed through his mind like a bard’s rhyme. Stories of the sword were legion. Every squire knew the legend, how Orrin Surehammer was more than just a smith, a wizard of old, forging luck and strength and courage into the first blue steel blade, creating an invincible sword for an uncertain time. And now it was strapped to his back, but the sapphire-blue blade was corrupted, turned black as sin, a cursed sword returned from history, the slayer of a king. Baldwin shivered, still finding it hard to believe that King Ursus was dead, felled by treachery. At least he had a mission, a way to serve the Octagon, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed. Leaning low in the
saddle, he urged his horse to speed. “Faster, we need to go faster.”

  Using the pale winter sun as his guide, he rode on a southerly course, making straight for the Snowmelt. In the untamed lands of the Domain, the Snowmelt River was one of the few sure markers, better than any map. He planned to ride to the Snowmelt and follow the raging tumult east; crossing the bridge to reach Eye Lake…but something followed him. Whatever it was, Baldwin sensed it wanted the black sword. He knew it in his gut, sure as death and sunrise. When he reached the lake he’d be rid of the cursed sword and whatever chased him. His horse couldn’t gallop fast enough.

  Twilight ambushed him, falling too soon for his liking. Baldwin slowed his horse to a trot, looking for a place to camp. An uprooted fir tree proved the only shelter, the giant’s exposed roots forming a tangled shield wall at his back. Dismounting, he quickly unsaddled his horse and rubbed the stallion down before collecting wood. A fire was probably unwise, a beacon to the enemy, but the feeling of being followed overrode caution. He built a raging bonfire and then sat with his back to the root wall, munching on a hard biscuit. His gaze kept sliding to the blanket-wrapped sword. He’d never really gotten a good look at it. Boric had named it Dragonsteel, the name alone enough to inspire legends. Forever keen and imbued with magic, Baldwin wondered what it would be like to wield such a sword, a weapon forged for heroes.

  A wolf howled in the night…but just a wolf. Baldwin unsheathed his short sword and kept it close, straining to see past the firelight. Sleep stalked him but he struggled against it, certain whatever followed him would come at night. Gripping his sword hilt, he stared into the darkness…but it was so hard to stay awake. Leaning against the tangled roots, he stared at the dark till weariness ambushed him.